


Shadowdancing

by orphan_account



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Implied Relationships, Implied Underage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is some fictional story; Hollywood meets Middle America in high definition. But the studio lights keep shifting, leaving him half in shadow to better light the artful spike of black red gold painted hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadowdancing

He thinks that this can’t be reality, this sudden flash of fame flooding toward them like a riptide, undercurrent pulling his feet off the solid surface of the ground. This is some fictional story; Hollywood meets Middle America in high definition. But the studio lights keep shifting, leaving him half in shadow to better light the artful spike of black red gold painted hair. For all the pressure though, Cook doesn’t seem to falter, the ever-impressive catalog of vocabulary falling from his tongue like his script has been written for a lifetime.

Just a script still, the public mask of calm palatable rock star for the masses. Not the man that crowds closer to him every day, hands across his skin like a brand of possession under the flare of camera flash and studio light; dusting his silver with gold.

That doesn’t feel like reality either.

 

Everything’s changed now. He can’t remember the last time that he slept in his own bed, has a vague notion of living and dying by the five minutes of shower time left over between this sister and that. He could stand in the shower in his hotel room for hours without it ever running cold, until his fingertips shriveled up to prunes and the fog dripped down the mirror. He might prefer it that way, no reflection of the smile permanently affixed to his face to live up to for one moment.

He’s surrounded by an entourage, handlers dictating his every move and scheduling his day down to the nanosecond and the only person actually seeing _him_ is sliding farther out of reach no matter how frequent the contact. And every time he sees Cook it’s like he’s slipped further into his shell, the façade of fame turning from porcelain to cement. He wants to take a jackhammer to the precision perfect-ness of it all, wants to get under the surface, mess up his hair and smear the kohl lining his eyes. He wants to look David in the eye and show him that someone else still sees the man underneath.

He wants things that aren’t his to take.

 

He’s standing still, the world moving on around him, without him. He’s caught up in the whirlwind, following a tornado across the flatlands like some kind of thrill seeker. He’s two seconds off the beat, heart racing faster to match the rhythm that his mouth can’t manage. He’s waiting; standing on the edge of the world while it spins away.

It’s three am, digital red glaring unapologetically bright. The day is done, flashbulbs resting, the collective breath of the east coast held for the sunrise of tomorrow. It’s three am and he’s waiting, hand poised to knock against polished wood, caught in the stutter stop of his own excuses. It’s three am and he’s on the edge, trying to fall into the sun, living for the burn. The door opens, but it’s not the sun that answers; it’s the moon hanging in the night sky, a gentler embrace of light falling across his cheek, shaking hands slipping awkward and unsure across his skin.

It’s three am. Let the sun sleep.


End file.
